


Fragmentary

by CarpeVesper



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Team Up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2019-08-09 19:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16456085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarpeVesper/pseuds/CarpeVesper
Summary: It's not easy to piece or keep yourself together.AKAHow Gavin Reed does nothing to help himself while he physically and emotionally gets the shit kicked out of him, and how RK900 changes that.





	1. Corollary

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry for such a hiatus between posts. I've been super busy, but now, I'm back, with more stories to tell! The last time I wrote, it was about was Simon and Markus, who are wonderful, so I think it'll be fun to write about two bastards this time around.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“No, no, _fuck_ no. Fowler, you _cannot_ fucking do this to me.”

“Really?” Fowler asks. “Because the last time I checked, it said ‘Captain’ on my desk, not yours.” He crosses his arms and stares down at Gavin. Gavin rubs his face his hands. He looks to the corner of the office, and that prick, that _goddamn_ piece of plastic still stands there. His expression hasn't moved an inch, but Gavin swears the motherfucker is smirking at him.

“You do _not_ have to to this to me.”

“I don’t have to, but I’m going to anyways.”

Gavin presses his palms into his eyes so hard he sees stars. He’s ten seconds from swiping all the shit off Fowler’s desk and storming out of the building. Instead, he takes a long, deep breath. He holds it for a seven-count, then exhales for as long as he can, the one trick from the therapist he hasn’t seen in years that he actually uses.

“Alright, fine, whatever,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “I get it. But why _me_? Why do I gotta work with this fucker? Why not Tina? Or Chris? Or Ben? Or—”

“Gavin,” Fowler says, cutting his frantic list short. “Did you know that your disciplinary folder has gotten larger than Hank’s?”

Gavin stops cold. He blinks. “No,” he says.

Fowler sighs and nods.

“No, no,” Gavin says, the word increasing in pitch and volume. “You said it yourself, Anderson’s folder looks like a goddamn novel. I’m bad, Fowler, but I’m not that bad.”

“Oh he was beating you for a while,” Fowler concedes. “But then a funny little thing happened. He started getting fewer and fewer pages, and you kept racking up more and more. I wonder what we can attribute that to.”

Fowler looks over, towards Hank’s desk. Hank’s android, Connor, sits next to it. He rests his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands and, judging from his curious expression and the yellow LED Gavin sees despite being across the room, he’s listening to their conversation. Stupid fuckin’ android ears. When he notices Fowler noticing him, he smiles a dumb, happy smile and waves at Fowler. Fowler waves back.

Gavin never considered himself a genius, but he has more than enough brain cells to rub together.

“Oh _FUCK_ no,” Gavin yells, so loud that even the members of the DPD that don’t have stupid, incredible android hearing look in their direction. Their faces spell concern or annoyance, for the most part. All except for Hank. Hank wears a shit-eating grin and dares to nod in Gavin’s direction.

Gavin flips him off and turns back to Fowler.

“Listen, Fowler,” he says, planting one of his hands down flat on the desk and gesturing with the other, “I’m real flattered, but I don’t need their little Geppetto and Pinocchio act, or whatever the fuck it is. You want me to play nice? I’ll play nice.” 

“That’s great, Gavin,” Fowler says, “but unfortunately, I don’t believe you.”

“Well, why the fuck not!” Gavin shouts.

“Because you said you’d play nice the last time I dragged you in there. And the time before that. And the time before that. And the time before that.”

Gavin physically bites down on his tongue. Usually, he’d have some retort to throw back at Fowler, something to prove him wrong. Expect, damn him, he isn't wrong. Gavin's blood pressure has risen exponentially over the past several months. It's not just Hank pissing him off anymore; he snaps on the regular at the rest of the office. He bitches at Tina, of all people, the only person in the entire office he appreciates and the solitary member of the DPD willing to put up with his bullshit for longer than ten minutes.

“Gavin, as much as your people skills leave to be desired, you are one of the top detectives in this precinct. I’d hate for you to get fired because you can’t suck it up and at least act like a decent human being.”

“Fowler, I—” Gavin begins, hoping to filibuster his way to a result he likes.

“And I don’t think you want to get fired either. Unemployment’s still at a solid 40 percent. Unless you want to chance those odds.”

There goes the filibuster. Gavin feels dizzy like helium is filling his head and lungs. His list of options and outs is shortening, leaving him with nothing but unfavorable outcomes. 

“Please,” he says like it's a complete sentence.

“Gavin. Either you leave this office with the android, or you leave entirely. Your choice.”

Gavin sighs and puts his head in his hands. “Please don’t make me say it.”

Fowler crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “Gavin,” he says like a stern father.

“Fine, whatever,” Gavin says, throwing up his hands. “The android.”

Fowler sighs in relief and nods the android over to them. He still looks pretty damn similar to Connor, but, from this close, Gavin notices the subtle differences. Whereas Connor was taller than him by three inches, tops, this android is at least six inches taller. Similar, but not quite identical, moles and freckles as to Connor's fleck his skin. His skin is paler, his jaw is a bit wider, and his eyes are a sharp, piercing grey.

“Hello Detective Reed,” the android says. Fuck. He sounds like Connor as well. His voice lower, but by only a few degrees.

“What’s your model?” Gavin asks.

“It’s on my jacket. Do you suffer a visual impairment?”

Gavin blinks. Then, he feels his skin grow hot from his face to his chest. Gavin didn’t take any shit from anyone, and he for sure didn’t take any shit from cocky androids.

“I can read, you fucking dick.” He knows how to read, he just wanted to see what he would do. Apparently, he was going to be rude. “Alright, RK900. What’s your name?”

“Connor,” the android says.

Gavin thought he had drawn the line before, but Fowler be damned, was drawing the second line right here.

“Oh, no chance in hell,” he says.

“Gavin!” Fowler snaps. 

“What!? It’s bad enough that he's got the same face as Anderson's pet, I’m not calling him the same name.”

“Gavin, that’s not how names work!” Gavin swears he sees steam rolling off Fowler’s head. “It’s his name, you don’t get to call him something different just because it’s more convenient to—”

“It’s fine,” the android says in its cool, calm voice. “I can select a new name.”

“Are you sure?” Fowler asks.

“It would be confusing to work in an environment with two androids both haring the same name. My previous model was here first, and you all have gotten used to his name. I can be the one to change mine.”

“Well, what do you want? Conrad? Conan? Caleb?”

“Any alliteration might also prove confusing. I believe Detective Reed has already made an apt suggestion.”

“Huh?” Gavin tries to run back the last five minutes of the conversation in his head, trying to figure out what the hell he’s referencing. “Geppetto? Pinocchio? Dick?”

“Richard would be quite suitable.” The android smiles. Gavin wants to punch its dumb, perfect teeth in. 

“Alright you two,” Fowler says with a dismissive wave. “Back to it, I’ve got real work to do.”

Gavin shoves his chair away from Fowler’s desk and, without bothering to push it back in, stalks out of the office. The android trails behind him, maintaining such an exact distance that Gavin’s near positive he’s calculating some optimal travel distance or some shit. Gavin plunks down in his chair. Richard sits in the empty desk next to him. He turns his head to the side and watches Gavin for a moment. His eyes are unsettling in their cold grey. Gooseflesh prickles on the back of Gavin’s neck.

“Fuck are you looking at?” Gavin asks, wanting to get his eyes off him.

“I’m pleased to be working with you, Detective Reed,” Richard says. He doesn’t even sit like a regular person. His back is ramrod straight, and his hands rest precisely in the center of his lap. Perfect. Machine.

Gavin looks him up and down and makes a disgusted sound. “Oh go to hell.”


	2. Cohabitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my friends here is another chapter

It hasn’t been as bad as Gavin had been expecting, but that wasn’t saying much. Yeah, this gaping wound of a situation wasn’t festering, but it was still a gaping wound. Gavin’s solution, as of now, was to ignore the issue. It had worked, so far. He hadn’t spoken more than twenty words to Richard in the last three days, and that suited him fine. If he turned his monitor at a certain angle, Gavin could pretend he wasn’t even there.

Well, at least until one of two things happens.

The first of which was happening right now. Richard types fast. And loud. He types faster than anything Gavin’s ever seen in his life. His fingers fly across the keys in a blur and, of course, he never makes a mistake, never having to pause to look down and find the backspace key. The files on his screen whiz by at a strobe-like pace and Gavin swears his eyes are moving in two slightly different directions to read the damn thing. It’s starting to make him nauseous. Or…. Maybe that was his empty stomach. Gavin tries to recall what he had for breakfast and realizes he hasn’t had anything. Ugh.

Gavin yanks open one of his desk drawer and rifles through it. He mostly encounters empty manilla folders, miscellaneous trash, and scraps of paper with scribbled notes. “Hey, asshole,” he says, lifting his free hand above his head and snapping his fingers. “Go get me a coffee.”

“No,” Richard says. His eyes never waver from his screen.

Gavin glances up. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said no,” Richard repeats. “I’m neither your personal assistant nor an intern. Get your own coffee.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Gavin says. “I don’t need any damn coffee.”

That much was a lie. Gavin had gotten four non-consecutive hours of sleep last night. His need for either caffeine or sleep was becoming difficult to ignore, but he wasn’t going to give Richard the satisfaction of watching him get his own drink.

Come _on_ , he could have sworn he had some food in here. He shoves a heap of crumpled-up bags of paper and…. At the bottom of the drawer, half-buried under a ratty old jacket, he finds a pre-opened bag of chips with a good two-thirds of the bag left in it and a can of energy drink with a small dent in the side. Jackpot.

He throws the bag on his deck and cracks the can open to take a swig. By the time he’s downed half the drink, he realized that Richard is staring at him. One of his eyebrows is raised, and his lip curls into an expression that signifies nothing short of utter disgust. He’s quit typing too. Internally, Gavin congratulates himself for being able to do something disconcerting enough to get a literal machine to stop in its track.

“Is _that_ your breakfast?” Richard asks, doing nothing to hide his apparent revulsion.

“Yup,” Gavin says. He takes a large handful of chips and shoves them into his mouth. “What about it?” he asks, mouth still full.

Richard’s eye twitches. “There is…no nutritional value in any of that.”

“Uh-huh.” Gavin licks the chip grease off his fingers and takes another swig from the energy drink.

Richard takes a deep breath before speaking again. “I don’t think that will provide you with adequate energy for you to do your job.”

“Can you eat?” Gavin asks. 

Richard blinks. “No?” he says.

“Well I can, so don’t tell me what I should be eating. How ‘bout you stop paying attention to me and focus on your job?”

Richard clenches his jaw. His LED spins round and round, remaining yellow for several seconds. Then, he shakes his head and goes back to his typing.

Gavin grins. Himself: 1. Asshole android: 0.

“Hello, Richard!” a familiar, annoyingly chipper voice says.

Great. Here was the second thing that prevented him from ignoring Richard. 

“Hello, Connor,” Richard says, looking up from his work and giving Connor a cool smile.

They pick up a quiet conversation. Gavin tries to tune them out and is less than a few seconds away from digging out his headphones when he hears his name crop up amongst the noise. Gavin listens in and tries to figure out what they’re talking about except…they aren’t speaking in English. Probably to prevent Gavin from hearing what they're saying. Dickheads.

Gavin concentrates for a few more seconds and comes to the conclusion that they’re speaking Spanish. Well, four years of Spanish in high school and two more in college hadn’t made him fluent, but he knew enough. He concentrates and manages to pick out a few snippets of dialogue.

“—not dissimilar…Lieutenant Anderson.”

“Really?”

“I know…hardly believe it…just took–”

They stop talking. Gavin glances over and then realizes that, by looking over, he’s given himself away. Connor looks a bit confused, but Richard outright smirks. Then, Gavin sees their LEDs flicker and the slight change in their expressions, and realizes that now they’re _still_ talking, now with the weird telepathic thing androids can do. They didn’t even have to speak out loud in the first place. Richard wanted him to know they were talking about him.

God dammit.

Himself: 1. Asshole android(s): 1.

“Gavin! Richard!” Fowler’s voice cuts through the office. Gavin has the knee-jerk reaction of ‘oh shit, I’m in trouble,’ before he glances over and sees that Fowler isn’t even looking their way. “My office, now,” he says, not looking away from his computer screen.

Richard says goodbye to Connor and gets right up. God. It’s hard to tell if it's his height or sheer android efficiency, but the fucker moves _fast_. Gavin has to scramble out of his seat and push himself into a light jog just to catch up with him before he reaches Fowler’s door.

“This’ll be fun to watch,” Hank says as they go past. His smirk is practically audible. 

“Piss off, Anderson,” Gavin says, following Richard into Fowler’s office.

“Gentlemen,” Fowler says once they’re both inside with the door shut.

“What’ve you got?” Gavin asks.

“We might have a lead on a red ice trafficking operation.” Fowler slaps a manilla folder down on the table, one with a photograph of a man with dark circles under his eyes and a small scar on his lip paperclipped to it. “This is our man, a James Brooker. He’s going to be at King’s Bar tonight. I think it’s best if you go…keep an eye on him. See if this lead goes anywhere.” 

“So, a stakeout?” Gavin asks.

Fowler nods.

“Awesome, done. Does this asshole have to come with me?” 

Richard doesn’t turn his head, but Gavin senses his eyes burning a hole into his skull.

“I haven’t lost my mind yet, Gavin. I’m not letting you go alone.”

Gavin opens his mouth to speak.

“You’re not going with Tina either.”

Gavin closes his mouth. Richard snorts. Fowler rolls his eyes.

“Anyways. You’ll be leaving from here in three hours. I trust you two will be able to cooperate long enough to manage this, yes?”

“Of course, Captain Fowler. You can trust me.”

The “ _and not Gavin_ ” goes unspoken. Gavin bites down on the inside of his cheek.

Himself: 1. Asshole android: 2.

Great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw the new Halloween movie earlier today and it was good


	3. Stakeout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long whoops. Hope you enjoy!

Gavin peels out of the DPD parking garage twenty miles above the speed limit. The bass from the speakers rattles the entire car. In all honesty, Gavin didn’t particularly like this song, some forgettable track from some shitty 10s punk band. He would have skipped it, except that the moment the bass kicked in, Richard scrunched up his face and gripped the roof handle like a vice. 

Now, as they screech out onto the road, Richard turns down the bass. Gavin reaches out and turns it back up, to higher than what it was before. Richard scowls, but makes no motion to adjust it again, instead squeezing his eyes shut and clenching the handle until his knuckles become even paler.

Himself: 2. Asshole android: 2.

There. Even.

It’s not far to King’s Bar. Gavin has been there once or twice. It wasn’t terrible, but there are better places to get plastered, in his opinion. He liked Jimmy’s Bar, but Anderson has taken that up as his personal favorite, and there’s not enough booze in the world to make Gavin willing to drink in the same bar as him. Fifteen minutes from the DPD, Gavin cruises into an alley right next to the bar, pulls off a downright impressive three-point turn, and parks the car so that they get a perfect view of the entrance. Boom. Done. 

“Alright,” he says. “And now, we wait.” Gavin pushes his seat back and props his feet up on the dashboard. The music switches to something even more bass-filled crass than the rest. Richard takes a deep, long breath and digs his fingernails into the back of his other hand.

“Detective Reed,” he says, his voice high-pitched and strained, “as egregious as your music is, could you please turn it down.”

“What?” Gavin says, crossing his legs. “So much of a pussy you can’t listen to loud music?”

Richard flares his nostrils. His LED blinks red. “In addition to your music being the…” he grits his teeth “…perfect pitch and frequency to jostle my biocomponents, you're terribly conspicuous.”

“Fine, dickhead. I’ll turn it down.” Gavin’s reason outweighs his pettiness this time around, and he lowers the music’s volume until it’s more of a low murmur.

That wasn’t a point for Richard. Gavin wanted to turn down the music. This didn’t count. They were still even. Two-two. As if to reflect his mood, the overcast sky finally opens up, and soft sheets of rain come down across the car. The sound mingles with the music, creating a pseudo white noise. Gavin’s not pleased that it’s raining, because he’s left his umbrella at home, but he does enjoy the sound.  
“Do we have any idea how long it will take Brooker to arrive?” Richard asks.

“Nope,” Gavin says, reaching into the center console and pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

Richard sighs and says nothing more.

Half-focused on the bar’s entrance, Gavin passes the first hour smoking, burning his way through half a pack. The smoke warms his lungs, and the methodical click of the ashtray open and closes provides a dull sort of comfort. He spends the second hour watching the rain drip down the windshield. Individual droplets bond together and slide down the glass before the wipers sweep them away.

At three hours, he’s so bored that he’s fiddling with the car lock, pressing the pin in and out, in and out, in and out. Richard still hasn’t spoken, but he keeps shooting him the evil eye, a look not unlike the one a mother uses when her kids are brats. Like that’s going to stop Gavin. Instead, he presses it at different intervals. In. Out. Inout. In…out. Inout.

Richard lunges over and puts his hand on top of Gavin’s, forcing him to stop. Gavin struggles, trying to get one more click in, but fuck Richard is strong. He’s pushing down on his hand, and the pin is starting to hurt, ow, ow, ow.

“Stop,” Richard says once, monotone. He releases his hand and sits back in his seat.

Gavin pulls his hand back. There’s a round red mark on his palm, where the lock was. “Did CyberLife program you to be an asshole?” he asks, rubbing his thumb across the impression.

“I can adapt my personality to any number of people. I’m merely responding to what I see.”

Fuck. Two to three.

“Well, in any case, shouldn’t you be able to adapt, so you look like a regular person?”

It’s a shitty retort, bordering on a non-sequitur. Unworthy of any points, but not so bad that it’s a minus one, because honestly, Gavin has a point. For someone on a secret operation, Richard doesn’t look the part. It’s forty degrees outside, and he’s wearing jeans and a thin cotton t-shirt. No jacket, no extra layers, not a goddamn thing. For someone supposed to blend in, he’s doing a shit job at looking like a normal human being.

“Seriously,” Gavin asks, “where the fuck did you even get those clothes.”

Richard’s lip curls. “They’re Cyberlife-issue. Chosen to assimilate with most average, neutral environments.”

Gavin snickers, pulling the last cigarette from his pack and lighting it. “Seriously? Well either they fucked up with that, or you’ve got shit judgment.”

Richard opens his mouth, starting to say something, but he stops before he can form the first syllable. He looks out the window, craning his neck to get a view around the corner. Gavin tries to look at whatever he’s looking at, but the rain has grown heavier, and seeing through the gray murk is difficult.

“What was that? What are you looking at?” he asks. 

“James Brooker. That was him.”

“You sure?”

Richard shoots him a withering look. “I wouldn’t joke about that, Detective.”

Gavin supposes it makes sense. Even if he wanted to make Gavin miserable, pretending to see the target when he didn’t would jeopardize their misson and, to the extent of Gavin’s understanding, an android mission was its top priority, no matter what. “Alright, there’s our man, we should be ready to….” Gavin looks at Richard, whose blue LED circles. “Shit.”

Richard’s eyes narrow. “What is the issue, Detective?”

“Your dumb fuckin’ light,” Gavin says. He leans back and sifts through the various piles of junk in his backseat.

Richard touches his pointer and index fingers to it. It flickers yellow for a brief second. “Yes. What about it?”

“This place isn’t gonna be too friendly to androids. I’m looking for something toooooooooo—Ah! Fuck yeah, here we go.”

Gavin digs his prize out of the pile almost directly underneath the driver’s seat: a beaten-up Detroit Red Wings cap. He thought he had lost it months ago, and in the back of his mind, he’s glad that it's not gone. He presents it to Richard with a smug smile. Richard takes it but raises an eyebrow.

“What do you want me to do with this?” he asks.

“Wear it?” Gavin says, miming the motion of putting the hat on his head. “You need to cover that shit.”

Richard inspects the hat and wrinkles his nose.

“I don’t have fuckin’ lice or anything. And even if I did, it wouldn’t matter, ‘cause whatever the fuck you have isn’t real hair. Put it on asshole.”

Maintaining his sour expression, Richard dons the hat. It pushes a lock of Richard’s otherwise perfect hair down his forehead. Richard attempts to fix it, but the best he can manage is just shifting it around. God, he looks pissed. Is that a point? Gavin’s going to count that as a point. Himself: 3. Asshole android: 3.

“Is this satisfactory?” Richard asks.

“Very.”

Richard sighs. “Fine then. Let’s go.”

Gavin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. It doesn’t matter how many times he’s done this before, he always gets a strange rush right before he goes in. He’s experienced, skilled, but there's still a chance something will go wrong. Especially when the big, fat confounding variable that was Richard was present. Gavin opens his eyes and looks right at Richard.

“You do not look at anyone, you do not speak to anyone. I am the one in charge here, I do the talking. Understood?”

“Understood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!


	4. Coup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm not dead, here's a new chapter

In hindsight, this probably could have gone a lot better. Gavin can’t point to exactly when it went wrong, but, considering that he’s bungee-tied to a chair in a dimly-lit, hidden room behind the bar, with no android to be seen, it definitely started to go downhill somewhere.

Maybe they’d been too conspicuous coming in. They hadn’t slammed open the door, and the music hadn’t stopped Old Western-style, but the bartender had shot them a nasty look that only intensified when the two of them sat at the bar and didn’t order anything. Gavin has a personal policy of not drinking on the job itself, lest he conflates work and leisure, but it was still weird not to get anything. Damn, he should have gotten the android to order something, then, Gavin thinks.

Maybe he was too obvious looking at Brooker. Brooker had sat further down the bar, and Gavin had kept sneaking glances, trying to get a better look at the guy. The man had stared down at his glass, eyes wide, fingers twitching, likely high as a kite already. That was probably why, when Brooker caught Gavin staring at him, he had made his way over.

“You lookin’ to buy?” he had said, his voice hoarse and trembling.

“Hm?” Gavin had replied.

“You, you keep lookin’ at me. You wanna buy something?”

Perfect. Bingo. Gavin had cast a brief glance at the bartender, who had been looking, perhaps purposefully, in a different direction. He had turned back to Brooker and said in a hushed voice, “You selling?”

Brooker had nodded, his pupils wide as saucers, a twitch in his temple. “Yeah. Jus’ follow me.”

Looking back, Gavin realizes the moment Brooker had taken him into that back room, he should have incapacitated him and drug him right to the DPD. Instead, Brooker had tackled him and squeezed his throat until he had passed out. And now he’s stuck here in a dark, unfamiliar room, tied to a wooden chair, gun missing, throat dry, Brooker screaming three inches from his face.

“I asked who the _fuck_ sent you!” Brooker howls, and the stark lone light above them makes his face appear unreal. Every red vein pops from his eyes. Flecks of his spittle land on Gavin’s face. “Was it Reuter? Pratt?”

“Fuck _off_.” Gavin spits back. “No one sent me, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Brooker’s fist crashes into Gavin’s jaw. His head snaps back, and stars dance in his vision. Here comes another pain to join his bruised throat and sluggish body. Dammit. This shouldn’t be going like this. He shouldn’t have let Brooker drag him back here. Sloppy. Stupid. Unprofessional.

“You don’t wanna tell me?” Brooker rasps. “Fine, _fine_. I wanted to do this the easy way, but I guess not!”

“This is the easy way?” Gavin asks.

That earns him another punch to the head.

“Fucker!” Brooker barks. “I’m gonna get some friends, then we’ll see if you feel like talking!” He spits on the ground, then stumbles out of the light, out of Gavin’s field of view. Gavin hears a door slam, and then he hears nothing but his own thoughts rattling in his skull.

Gavin huffs, dropping his chin to his chest, and looks up into the dark room. Shadows swallow up the corners and far edges, and the light above him makes his night vision useless, giving him no clue as to where Brooker went. Hell, for all Gavin knows, Brooke’s still here with him. Squinting, he scans his surroundings slowly, trying to find anything that might orient him. He sees nothing but a few broken barstools and a small glowing blue light.

Wait. Was there one light or two? Gavin blinks and rubs his eye on his shoulder. At first, he sees one light, then two, then one in a different place than the first one. Great. Had Brooker drugged him without realizing it? Is he hallucinating?

The lights grow bigger and brighter, and Gavin realizes they’re getting _closer_. A dull sense of dread gnaws at his gut. They approach, and they approach, and a hazy form takes shape around them. Gavin’s heart leaps into his throat.

Wait a second. Gavin recognizes that form. The pale skin, sharp jaw, and Detroit Red Wings cap are unmistakable. Richard is the one creeping toward him, his eyes a piercing, glowing blue.

“Richard!” Gavin whisper-hisses. 

Richard does not reply, only presses a single long finger to his lips. He steps into the light. A combination of the light and shadows and his height relative to Gavin make him look like a statue, impossibly smooth skin, impossibly tall, impossibly perfect. The fear in Gavin’s gut disappears, replaced with a strange feeling. It’s like anger, but more dull, less red.

“Why didn’t you help me earlier, asshole?” Gavin says in another quiet hiss.

“You told me not to speak to anyone,” Richard replies, his voice a low, barely audible rumble. “Shh.”

Gavin bites his lip. Goddamnit. Him and his big mouth. He probably didn’t even have to say anything. Richard probably would have been quiet all on his own. With impressive silence, Richard slinks behind him. Gavin hears a soft ‘shnk’ and brief sawing, and the ropes around him fall loose.

Rubbing his wrists, Gavin stands and turns to face Richard. Richard holds one hand in front of him, a small white knife emanating from his pointer finger. His skin slides back to expose white plastic, the knife melts back into his body, and the skin seals back over the plastic, seamless, undetectable.

Gavin starts to speak, but before he can get a word out, Richard clamps a hand over his mouth. He leans in, right next to Gavin’s ear. “Don’t speak,” he says, voice unnaturally quiet. “The door is eleven paces directly in front of us. Brooker, the bartender, and a third man are behind it. Brooker has a pistol. The other two have knives. I will get Brooker and the third man. You get the bartender. Nod if you understand.”

Richard’s breath ghosts past his ear and his hand presses against his face, both cool rather than hot. It sends an involuntary shiver down Gavin’s spine. As much as he’d like to dispute Richard’s plan and be the one in charge, it’s a decent plan, better than anything Gavin could come up with on the spot. He nods.

Richard nods in reply. “Good. Take this.” He removes his hand from Gavin’s mouth and, with his other hand, presses Gavin’s gun into his fingers. “Follow me.” Soundlessly, Richard creeps into the darkness of the room.

Gavin follows, counting his own steps. One. Two. Once his eyes adjust to the darkness of the room, he can make out a few more vague shapes. Three. Four. Empty plastic bags litter the ground along with puddles of mystery fluid, and clothes and other personal belongings lie strewn across chairs or tables. Five. Six. Crime scene investigation was going to have a field day in this place. Seven. Eight. He hopes there’s enough evidence here to snag them a decent lead. Nine. Ten.

Richard stops short. Gavin nearly runs into him. “Hey!” he whisper-shouts.

“Quiet,” Richard replies. “They’re right behind the door. On my signal, get ready to fight.” He puts his open hand up in the air and begins counting down his fingers.

Gavin takes a deep breath. Adrenaline thrums through his body, dulling the pain in his neck and head and chasing away his weariness. They’ve got one chance, and they’re going to do this _right_. And Gavin wasn’t going to let Richard upstage him again, he promises himself. Richard’s last finger goes down, his hand becoming a fist. He glances at Gavin and nods, receiving a nod in reply. With freight train-like force, Richard kicks open the door.

The bartender exits first, to Gavin’s advantage. It’s quick work. He leverages all his force to pin him against the wall. With a swift kick to his wrist, the knife clatters to the ground. Within a few seconds, Gavin pins him down to the ground, arms behind his back. Easy money. Gavin grins and turns to Richard. _“Beat that, asshole,”_ he means to say.

Instead, it comes out as: “Beat thaaaa… holy shit.”

Richard is _fast_.

The other man is already down on the ground, hands cuffed behind his back. Now, Richard squares off with Brooker, fists raised to defend his face. Brooker keeps trying to get a bullet in him, but it’s no dice. Richard bobs back and forth on the balls of his feet, moving closer in jerky, unpredictable steps. Every one of Brooker’s shots flat-out misses.

“Motherfucker!” Brooker shouts. He yanks the magazine from his gun and scrabbles to pull a second from his belt. All the while, Richard advances, quickly picking gaining speed and momentum until he’s practically on top of Brooker. With a wordless yell, Brooker shoves the new clip in the gun and fires point-blank. Gavin’s breath catches in his throat. Richard’s going to get shot.

Or he should. But he doesn’t. Because instead of standing there, Richard clamps his hand over the gun.

Brooker fires once, twice. Blue sparks fly from Richard’s hand, but the bullets do not pass through. Richard doesn’t stop moving, pressing closer and closer to Brooker, a veritable juggernaut. 

Brooker yelps. He fires a third shot, to the same nonreaction. Finally, he drops the gun and tries to scramble away. In three smooth steps, Richard drops the gun, kicks it away, and kneels so that he catches Brooker by the ankle moments before he can get away. It takes him seconds to produce a pair of handcuffs from his jeans and get them on Brooker.

Holy shit. Despite Gavin’s promise to the contrary, Richard thoroughly upstaged him, but he doesn’t even care. He’d never admit it in a million years, but that right there was the coolest thing he’s ever seen in his life.

He opens his mouth, ready to disguise his awe with something witty or snarky, but he can’t even get one word out before he slumps over, pain hammering through his system. The adrenaline is gone. “Ow,” he wheezes. Wow. Real witty. Nice going, Gavin.

“You’re injured,” Richard says as if that isn’t plainly fucking obvious. “Let me help you.”

“Oh piss off,” Gavin hisses. “I’m fine.” He tries to stand up, but he can’t really do anything more than half sit up and cough weakly.

“No, you’re not.” It’s too late. Richard’s already next to him, hooking his arm around Gavin’s side and hoisting him up. Gavin tries to push him away, but he’s pretty sure he barely has the strength to push away a child, let alone a state-of-the-art android.

He settles for complaining instead. “God. You’re terrible, you know that? Just leave me here to die.”

“That would compromise the mission, Detective,” Richaet replies dryly, taking one step for every one of Gavin’s two as they weave back through the empty bar. 

“Christ, you and the mission, you glowing-eyed bastard.”

Richard stops walking. “Pardon, Detective Reed?”

Gavin huffs. “I saw your eyes glowing in the dark back there, except it was…one at a time or something. Fuckin’ weird.”

“You’re referring to my adjusted optics,” Richard says. “I switched to night vision so that I could locate you.”

He puts a finger to his left temple, and like turning on a lightbulb, his left eye glows a brilliant blue. Gavin blinks. “Your eyes just…do that?” he asks.

“I have several visual modes, including thermal and medical. Speaking of which, thank you for reminding me.” Richard blinks, and both his eyes go green. Without warning, Richard puts his hand on Gavin’s face and lifts up his chin.

“Hey, what the _fuck_ are you doing, get off of me!” Gavin squawks. 

“There’s bruising on your neck,” Richard says, moving Gavin’s head from side to side to examine his neck, “and it seems you’re short of breath. I’ll call EMS as well.” He, mercifully, releases his grip.

Gavin wipes the spot where Richard’s hand was with his sleeve. “As well?” he asks.

“I had already called for backup when Brooker took you into the back of the bar. They’re en route.”

Gavin groans, too out of breath to keep whining. Richard leads him outside, sets him on the curb, and goes off to meet a group of cops already there, leaving Gavin alone with his thoughts. Great. Backup. Now, even more people get to see how he fucked up. 

They haven’t flubbed the mission, but he sure as hell has. He let himself get captured in the first fifteen minutes, while Richard had borne the brunt of the work and had to bail him out. Fowler was right; he couldn’t have gone in alone. With a groan, he puts his head in his hands. Gavin doesn’t even get the chance to wallow properly. Three seconds later, he feels something tapping his shoulder.

Baring his teeth, Gavin looks up, “Fuck off—”

It’s Richard, holding out the Red Wings cap. Gavin wants to scream because he can’t be mad at him. Richard did everything he was supposed to do and saved his ass. To top it all off, Richard isn’t even being a dick about rescuing him, which is more than Gavin could say if their roles were reversed. Gavin’s the one who fucked up, not him, as much as it pains Gavin to realize. 

Gavin snatches the hat away, shoves it on his head, and pulls the brim down to cover his eyes. Without saying one word, Richard walks away, and only when his footsteps blend into the background noise does Gavin let out a pained, high-pitched whine.

Himself: 2. Android: 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long time between updates! I got really busy for a few months, but I'll try and update somewhat more regularly now

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments let me know you liked my story, so if you did and you want me to write more, please say so!
> 
> Until the next chapter!


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